Magic isn’t supernatural.
It’s a feeling capable of surrounding you.
It helps open your mind with an innocent embrace.
It looks something like a shooting star or a lanterned being dimmed in the distance, but you can’t see it.
If it could speak, it would sound like melted honey dripping from a wooden spoon, creamy from the summer sun.
If you could touch it, it would feel like Indian silk between your thumb and point finger.
If you could taste it, it would make your tongue ring notes of soft sweetness like a perfectly ripe peach picked from a tree in Moustiers Sainte-Marie.
No need to wash it.
If it could sway its hips under a Harvest Moon, it’d move just like you.
Your narrow feet, your thin ankles, your feminine legs that tap at each beat.
You’re dancing backwards, but you’re only
going forward.
Your body goes up.
And your body goes down.
Your body goes up.
And your body goes down.
You are Magic.
From the first moment I met you,
I knew you were Magic.
